Arriving here from Limerick's distant shore
(Where lexicographers announce demand),
I find a gauntlet thrown by lyric hand
And undertake to lift it from the floor.
The limerick's terse: not six lines, neither
four,
By anapest (perhaps one iamb) spanned.
One, two and five, constrained by rhyme's command,
Compel the --
I
can't do this anymore!
It's a feasible feat at first glance,
But I haven't got much of a chance.
Though I try not to cheat
And to follow the beat,
Still I've thirteen left feet in this dance.
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